


Safe and Warm

by InkSplatterM



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Dreamscapes, Gen, Ice Skating, Winter Festival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21722587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSplatterM/pseuds/InkSplatterM
Summary: Rinea remembers Rigel's last Winter Festival.
Relationships: Berkut/Rinea (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Safe and Warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zen_monk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zen_monk/gifts).



> Hello, I couldn't really hit the "fairytale" description in my prompt's description, but I hope that you like the atmospheric writing.

“Berkut, you’re frightening me!” 

Rinea backed up, away from the man she loved, but couldn’t move much farther than the fireplace behind her. The ruffles of her petticoats swayed close, held over the flames just by virtue of their height above her ankles. She thought that Berkut would be happy to know that he had not lost his place in her heart, that she was not so fickle as to leave him the moment he did not have the throne in his grasp. How could she have read him so wrong?

“Duma! O ancient god! I call out to you now! Grant me the power to set this land to ruin for good and all! Take of me what price you will! I care not anymore!”

Rinea screamed. 

Though Berkut pulled her away from the fireplace, fire had roared through her body anyway. It was as if a great hand had taken her entire self into its grasp and was tearing her soul out of her. In its wake, her body was ash, whole and cold after the ravaging. 

And yet...

And yet her hands were warm. Fine woolen threads encased them, knitted into mittens with wool dyed blue with woad and wool left at its brightest natural whites to make the pattern of Rigellian bears stood on their hind legs as if dancing with one another. The palms of her hands were warmer still, wrapped as they were to hold steady an earthenware cup. Steam rose from the liquid within, wafting an acidic scent to her nose that cut through the cold air around her. 

The rest of her was wrapped in fur and more dyed wool. Around her shoulders: a wolf pelt stole that kept the wool cape closer to her. For her legs: layered skirts and bright boots lined with soft rabbit fur. 

She sat on a log, the area under her brushed clear of snow and covered by an old blanket. Strange, Rinea thought, until she tapped the ice under her feet, and noticed the pair of strap-on ice skates that hung from the log’s lone branch. 

“Is the drink displeasing?”

Rinea looked up. Lord Berkut. His eyes were cold, questioning. He did not glare at her, but at the cup in her hands, as if it has done something greatly offensive by being not to her taste. For once, he was not wearing the horned circlet of the empire’s heir. It took nothing away from his proud bearing, but it was still strange. At no other time was he without it, be it relaxing after dinner or standing in front of the Rigellian court. He stood taller today than he normally did. A quick glance down showed that he was wearing his own ice skates strapped around his boots. 

“No, I’m just enjoying the scent.” Rinea took a sip. The liquid zinged across her tongue. Citrus from Zofia, no doubt, bought at the border before the snows hit, and mixed with the barley tea to make it sing. 

Memories clicked together. The winter festival of 397, one of the last that the Rigellian capital was able to celebrate in full. The famines would take away even this last festivity from the people in the next year. 

The winter festival was the one time ofthe year that the people of Rigel could revel in life, rather than just endure it. Every major city would have a fair with food stalls, cooking competitions, and ice races. The food stalls would have barley tea, meat pies, and roasted sweet nuts. All rough fare, limited, but hearty and filling. All made with joy. The emotion and well wishes pervaded every bite and every sip. A flower that bloomed even amidst the hard packed snow.

During the festival, the world turned on its head, the high made low and the low made high, and no one had to work for their daily fare. At the capital, Emperor Rudolf would open the castle to the poorest of the poor, allowing even the meekest vagrant the opportunity to sleep for several nights with a roof over their head through the deepest, harshest parts of winter. The capital also hosted the most extravagant winter ball and the greatest prizes for the festival competitions. 

As a rule, the nobles were barred from competing. Especially Lord Berkut. No one would want a potential loss of face to follow after the festival was over. After all, the festival was meant for the common people just as much as the nobles. Normally, those lowly folk were barred from so many things that the nobles could access. But there were nobles whose egos bruised easily, so a unilateral ban was for the best for all personalities involved.

Another sip, this time Rinea savored the mix of flavors, tasting the hope and the work that had gone into making the tea. The mug still steamed as she finished it. She placed it into a patch of snow, the heat made the white cover give way to make a neat little pocket where the cup could sit until they went back to the main fair ground to return it. 

“I’m still nervous my lord,” Rinea said, looking at the skates that she hadn’t put on yet. “What if I fall?”

“As if I would allow you to fall.” Berkut knelt and strapped the skates to her boots. His hands were assured as they tighten the buckles. It would be so easy to lean on that assurance. Rinea wanted to. She was so uncertain in her own life; what she should do next, where she should even place her feet. The only time she felt certain was when she was being led by Lord Berkut. Yet… there was something inside her that said not to. His assurance would not lead her to where she would be safe. 

Berkut offered his hand for Rinea to stand, but she ignored it, rising under her own power. Something in the back of her mind said something different should have happened there. It said she should have taken Berkut’s hand, should have let herself fall upon his chest to feel that delicious assurance with her whole being. Not this time. 

Rinea steadied herself, arms out wide. How strange to balance so precariously, but still feel so solid. Berkut stood behind her, his hands just under her arms. He did not touch her yet. 

“Balls of your feet, my dear, push with the balls of your feet.” Berkut’s voice was in her ear, warm, dominating over all other possible sounds. 

She did as he said, pushing forward, straight on the blade. It slipped out from under her and she pitched forward, stopped only by Berkut grabbing her and placing her on her feet again. “With the side of the blade. Balls of your feet, the side of the blade, move forward by going side to side.” He let her go. 

Rinea felt alone. Berkut stood there, arms at his sides, watching, waiting. His eyes were patient and steady, like a statue gazing upon a surrounding crowd . This did not feel right. 

A phantom set of arms wrapped around her waist. What should have happened was that Berkut took control of her, took control of where she went, bodily correcting her feet. Never ever letting go, because she was his, and he would not allow her to fall or fail, not when he was her teacher and leading her to a new way for them to dance together. 

She strode forward, pushing as she was told. The pace was slow at first, her feet shaky and unused to the movements, but she found her rhythm, going faster and faster. She never reached the opposite bank of the frozen pond. It should have tripped her, sent her into a snowbank. Snow should have gotten under her cape and been thrown up into her skirt. All of the wet coldness that happens when you roll into a pile of snow should have long caught up to her and taken its vengeance. But no, she continued. 

The ice was unending. 

The air grew warmer. The ice stayed as solid as the start, but the air grew warmer the further she went, and the trees turned bare, black. A few steps more and she could be where? Did she really want to go back there? Where was “there”? 

Pain seared across her hands, under her legs, through her chest. The burning sorrow tightened its fist around her, squeezing out every last breath. How could he? She turned away, back to the ice. 

She ran into Berkut’s chest, as if he had been right behind her the whole time.

“Why are you crying? What can I do?”

The question was gentle. Berkut would usually demand to know what had hurt her, who should be punished. To Berkut, resolving a pain was to punish a perpetrator, leaving her to wrap up her feelings on her own. His arms wrapped around her waist, hands warm and supportive. 

Was it so terrible that Rinea preferred this version?

“I thought,” Rinea swallowed, pushing away the pain and the heat that left her unable to breathe even to scream. “I thought you were gone.”

“Of course not. I’m here.” Berkut shifted his hold, taking one of her hands in his, the other at the small of her back. On automatic, Rinea moved her hand to his shoulder. They danced. The music came from the forest, the winter birds, the shifting branches, and the tinkle of falling snow. 

He lead, she followed. All was right with her world, where her lord adored her above even his throne, and she could be safe in his arms.


End file.
